


Stabbings, Concussions and Kisses

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Let's Write Sherlock Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not happy about what John has just done.  John is entirely unrepentant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stabbings, Concussions and Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second entry for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 1, although I started writing this one first. The prompt: _After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_

  


****

Sherlock whips his scarf off and throws it at the coatrack.  His coat follows, missing the peg and falling to the floor instead.  He shoves John aside and stomps up the steps, making a sound like a herd of elephants. 

 

“Oi!” John shouts after him, wincing at the white hot stab of pain that flares in his upper arm.  He reflexively presses a hand to the wound in a futile attempt to moderate the discomfort.  The door above him slams, making the entire foyer vibrate in protest.   John leans against the wall and sighs.  He closes his eyes for a brief moment and takes a deep, steadying breath.  When his breathing finally evens out and his gut is no longer roiling with an indecipherable sensation, he opens his eyes and slowly makes his way up to 221B.

 

He pushes the door open and is greeted with inky darkness.  Sherlock is silhouetted against the window with his violin tucked under his chin.  His profile is backdropped by the falling snow glittering in the streetlights’ glare.  His brow is furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin, angry line.  He raises his bow and viciously stabs it across the strings, filling the flat with a horrendous cacophony. 

 

John averts his eyes as he walks towards the kitchen.  He flips the light-switch on and blinks rapidly against the sudden brightness.  He busies himself with the comforting ritual of tea-making, automatically pulling down two mugs and adding two packets of sugar to one of them.  He turns the kettle on, flinching as a particularly out-of-tune note escapes the abused instrument in the adjacent room.  He doesn’t bother yelling at his flatmate to stop; such an effort would be futile in the extreme.  He braces himself against the countertop as he waits, head bowed and hands grasping the edge in a white-knuckled grip. 

 

His head snaps up when the noise comes to a sudden, screeching halt.  His muscles relax a fraction when he hears the muted noises of someone moving around, and they relax even further when he hears the sound of a squeaking cushion and the click of an opening laptop.

 

The kettle clicks off, and John deftly fills both mugs.  He lets the bags seep for exactly one point five minutes, then grabs one mug in each hand and marches smartly into the sitting room.  Sherlock doesn’t look up when he sets one down on the coffee table next to his knee.  John doesn’t say a word; he just turns around and walks over to his armchair, falling into it without ceremony.  He clutches the tea to himself like a talisman and exhales with a little sound of relief as the pressure is taken off of his aching feet. 

 

Sherlock makes an irritated noise.  “Quiet!” he snaps, eyes never leaving his computer screen.  John rolls his eyes.  He discards his plan of grabbing the remote and turning the telly on in favour of picking up the novel he is currently reading.  He reaches over and snaps on the lamp.  Sherlock grumbles but doesn’t say anything in complaint, fingers flying over the keyboard. 

 

Time passes in an uncomfortable silence.  John’s eyes flick over to his flatmate.  Sherlock’s face is lit up by his computer screen.  The pale parchment of his skin glows like newly fallen snow in the moonlight.  His mouth is pinched in a frown and his eyes glint cold as ice.  One lone curl hangs down, casting a shadow against the smooth surface of his ivory forehead; it begs to be brushed aside, out of the way of those ethereal windows to the soul.

 

John swallows.  His eyes return to the page open in front of him, and they focus to take in the paragraph he’s been re-reading for the past fifteen minutes. 

 

The atmosphere in the room crackles with tension.

 

“You almost died!”

 

The words aren’t shouted, or given in a raised voice, and yet they almost make John jump out of his skin.  The ensuing silence reverberates with accusation.

 

John looks up and meets his flatmate’s eyes.  Sherlock scowls and slams his laptop shut.  The light surrounding him disappears and throws his face in shadow, obscuring his expression further.

 

John clears his throat.  He lifts his chin in defiance.  “It was worth it,” he proclaimed.

 

“Wrong!’  Sherlock jumps up and steps over the coffee table.  He walks over to John and halts directly in front of him, looming over him in a threatening manner.  He points a shaky finger at John’s left arm.  “It wouldn’t have been worth it if the knife had continued on into your chest and heart.  It wouldn’t have been worth it then, because you would have been dead!”

 

John’s expression is unreadable and his voice steady as he replies, “It would have been worth it even then, if it resulted in your survival.”

 

“No,” Sherlock voice rumbles into a lower octave, dangerous and menacing.  “No, this penchant of yours for throwing yourself into the line of fire for me stops _now._ Immediately.  If you can’t agree to that, John, that I’m going to have to insist that you no longer accompany me on cases.”

 

John’s stomach sinks and his heart claws its way up into his throat.  The feeling is instantly replaced by a flare of righteous anger.  “Is that so?” he growls, his left hand clenching into a fist.  “And just how do you propose to stop me?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes glitter in the dampened lighting of the flat.  “I’ll have Lestrade rescind your Yard privileges, and I’ll have Mycroft revoke your firearm license.  I’ll do it, John.  Don’t think I won’t.”

 

John quashes the spark of hurt in his belly and barks out a laugh.  “Lestrade isn’t beholden to your random whims, Sherlock.  And don’t you think the latter is a little counterproductive?  The gun is meant to protect both of us so that _throwing myself in the line of fire_ won’t actually be necessary on a regular basis.”

 

 

He throws his book onto the end table and pushes himself off the chair to stand in front of Sherlock toe-to-toe.  They glare at each other, chests heaving.  John pokes a finger in Sherlock’s breast.  “You don’t have a monopoly on self-sacrifice, Sherlock.  You think you can throw yourself off a building to save three people, and yet deny me the opportunity to do the same for you? How _dare_ you think that you’re not worth it.  _How dare you.”_ John shouts the last sentence as he shoves Sherlock away from him.  The detective gasps, wind-milling his arms as he tries to keep his balance, to no avail.  He falls backwards, his head hitting the coffee table with a dull _crack._ His body goes limp and he slumps to the floor, unmoving.

 

John’s blood freezes in his veins at the sound.  He is paralysed as he prays for movement; just a twitch, anything.

 

“Sh – Sherlock?”

 

A rustle of fabric and a moan floating up from the crumpled form almost makes John collapse with relief.  He reaches a hand backwards and fumbles for purchase, steadying himself on the armrest of the chair behind him.  “Jesus,” he mutters, wiping a shaking hand across his brow.  He wobbles the short distance to his friend and crouches down next to his head.

 

“M’alright,” Sherlock mutters, waving away John’s concerned hands.  He winces as he pushes himself upright, and hisses when he gingerly touches a hand to the back of his head.  John sucks in his breath as Sherlock brings the hand within his line of sight, releasing it in a relieved rush when he sees no blood.

 

John reaches a trembling hand into his back pocket for the penlight he always carries. He pushes up Sherlock’s right eyelid and shines the light in his eye, repeating the process for the left one.  Satisfied with what he sees, he tosses the light aside and gently turns Sherlock’s head to the side so that he can properly examine the damage.  He gently probes and palpitates the point of impact until he’s satisfied the damage is minor.

 

“That’s gonna smart,” John offers helpfully. Sherlock scowls at him.  The errant curl once again escapes its nest, making the detective look ridiculously attractive.  John clamps down on the urge to sweep it back up where it belongs.   

 

“I’ll just… go get you some paracetamol and an ice pack.  Sit right there, don’t get up.” 

 

Sherlock obeys, watching John as he walks away towards the kitchen.  The silence continues when John returns with a glass of water, two pills and the blue ice-pack they’ve kept in the freezer ever since the Blind Banker case.   He flips the light to the sitting room on.  He wordlessly hands the water and pills to Sherlock and waits while Sherlock pops them in and washes them down. 

John hands Sherlock the ice pack.  “Keep this on your head for fifteen minutes.  Come on, I’ll help you to the sofa.”

 

Sherlock brushes John’s hand away. “I’m fine, I can get up by myself,” he grumbles.  John steps back, arms raised.

 

“Alright, just trying to help,” he says easily. 

 

Sherlock rises to his feet, swaying as he stands.  He gingerly makes his way around the coffee table and sits down on the sofa.  He presses the ice pack to the back of his head and stares at the carpet.  He refuses to meet John’s eyes.

 

John sits back down and regards his flatmate quietly.  Several minutes tick by before Sherlock clears his throat.

 

“You’re the one who was actually injured, yet here you are tending to _my_ needs.”  Sherlock shakes his head in disgust.  His eyes remain steadfastly averted.  “I do not understand, John.  Why must you always play the hero?  Do you not realise how necessary you are to my work?  If you insist on being so careless with your life, one of these days..” Sherlock swallows hard.  “One of these days your luck will run out, and you will be lost to me.”

 

John considers his words before replying.  “We’ve always thrown ourselves head-first into danger, both of us.  What’s different about this time?”

 

 

Sherlock shrugs helplessly.  “This is the first time since my return that a case has not ended with you unscathed.  I did not sacrifice my reputation, not to mention three years of my life,  just to find you back in the crosshairs again.  I gave up everything so that you could live; I’m not about to lose you just six months after getting you back.”

 

John’s eyes soften.  “Sherlock, look at me,” he coaxes.

 

Sherlock slowly lifts his head and locks his red-rimmed eyes with John’s.  John’s heart aches to see such vulnerability in them.  Sherlock Holmes should never look like that, ever.  Sherlock Holmes is meant to be untouchable, surrounded by an aura of sangfroid. 

 

John clears his throat.  “Do you not think I know exactly what you’re going through?  For three years I thought you were lost to me, Sherlock.  I believed you were gone, forever.  So I know exactly what it is you’re afraid of, and you have every right to be.  It’s not a pleasant thing to go through.  I’m not about to repeat that experience anytime soon, so I will do everything in my power to make sure I won’t.   You can’t stop me,  just like I couldn’t stop you from doing what was necessary when _my_ life was threatened.  Don’t ever, _ever,_ make the mistake of believing that your life is worth less than mine.  We’ll both continue to do what we do, and hopefully it will be enough to ensure our survival for many years to come.  Friends protect people, remember?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes grow dark as he holds John gaze.  “Friends do, yes.  But what about people who are more than friends?”

 

John swallows.  “M-more?  What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock carefully sets down the ice pack, eyes never leaving John’s.  “I think you know exactly what I mean, John Watson,” he says, pushing himself up from the sofa and propelling those long legs towards his flatmate.  When he’s standing right in front of the doctor’s armchair, he leans down and places each hand on an armrest, effectively trapping John in what has always been his refuge.  John leans back into the chair as far as he can without disappearing through the cushion. 

 

Sherlock gives John a smug smirk, one that John wants to either punch or kiss away, he’s not sure which yet.  Sherlock lowers his voice to a silky-smooth rumble.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the looks you’ve been giving me all evening, John.  You’ve practically been undressing me with your eyes.  Why haven’t you made a move, Captain?  Are you afraid that I would reject you? Or perhaps that you would be taking advantage of a poor, naïve virgin?”

 

John feels a jolt of undiluted arousal at Sherlock’s words, immediately followed by shame at his reaction.  Then he realises who it is he’s dealing with, and exasperation mingled with affection swamps his being.  Sherlock always knows exactly what to say or do to elicit an intended response.  He is no blushing virgin, and even if he were, he is nobody’s victim.  He always knows exactly what he’s doing, and his usage of John’s rank indicates his knowledge and approval of the one kink that elevates John’s sexual proclivities above the status of ‘vanilla’.

 

John grabs Sherlock’s neck and pulls him down, crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss.  Sherlock parts his mouth for him eagerly - a warm, moist invitation that brooks no ambivalence.  All of the pent-up desire John has felt since Sherlock’s return manifests as a dance of lips and tongue, and all of the unspoken sentiment Sherlock has acknowledged only to himself reveals itself in breathy sighs and shaky moans.   The kiss goes on and on - for minutes, for hours, for days – before they both run out of oxygen and pull back, chests heaving.  They stare at each other for several seconds before bringing their foreheads together, breathing in each other’s air. 

 

Sherlock speaks first.  “Is there any danger of concussion, doctor?”

 

John huffs a laugh.  He places his palm against Sherlock’s cheek and strokes his thumb against the smooth skin.  “Just a small chance.  Best I keep an eye on you for the remainder of the night, wake you up every couple of hours just to be safe.”

 

“For safety’s sake, then, would you care to keep me company in my room?  If that would be… convenient?”

 

John smiles, an emotion he doesn’t care to put a name to yet welling up in his chest and threatening to dislodge every organ that resides there. 

 

“Even if inconvenient, I’d come anyway, you insufferable git.”

 

 


End file.
